<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>my heart went with you by unearth</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143853">my heart went with you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/unearth/pseuds/unearth'>unearth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1940s, First Kiss, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-War, Slow Dancing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:15:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,824</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30143853</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/unearth/pseuds/unearth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I haven’t danced since 1943.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>155</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>my heart went with you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>had a meltdown over bucky in tfatws ✅<br/>finished a stevebucky fic for the first time ever ✅<br/>so this might be an incoherent jumbly mess.....that was my bad guys</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve’s messily filling up the big, bubbly letters on his mock-up sketch a dark red when Bucky comes in through the door, smelling of smoke.</p><p>He’s too tired to raise his voice about how Bucky’s gonna stink up the whole place, <em>again</em>. Hasn’t been sleeping much, not with the newly changing weather stirring up aches and pains in his chest and limbs and the hushed murmurs in the streets about the United States’ involvement in the war.</p><p>Bucky, though, can never keep his mouth shut for more than a few minutes, especially not when he’s dirty from the docks and eager to tell Steve all about his day. He lessens the gap between the two of them in a couple of big strides, humming some song that’s probably been playing over and over on the radio his boss keeps on.</p><p>“Good day?”</p><p>Steve grunts. He messed up a rough draft and can’t quite get his lettering right. Old man Jennings requested something neat and clean to promote his shop and Steve’s hands just won’t stop trembling after the particularly nasty cough attack he had just after lunchtime, but he’s <em>fine</em>.</p><p>He’s blaming the gross sandwich. And definitely not bringing it up.</p><p>Bucky presses a closed mouth kiss to Steve’s hair. “Sorry. The guys were chainsmokin’ like hell today. Nerves are going all haywire, because of everything. Walked the long way home, though, so it’s not as bad.”</p><p>“You didn’t have to,” Steve says, failing to keep his voice even, but Bucky just gives him a look.</p><p>“And listen to you whine and moan all night? <em>Buck, the walls will be tinted yellow soon.</em>”</p><p>Steve carefully sets down his colors. “I don’t <em>sound like that</em>.”</p><p>“Stevie, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Bucky says, all jokes and smiles and scrunched up nose. He’s still close, his warmth settling something in Steve’s stomach. “You do.”</p><p>“Do <em>not</em>,” he continues. He pushes his commission further onto the kitchen table and looks back up, pointedly. “What’s got you in such a good mood today? That girl finally give you the time of day?”</p><p>Steve knows her name is Helen.</p><p>Bucky knows that Steve knows her name is Helen. His eyebrows tick up, creases appearing on his forehead. They’re only slightly visible, because his hair is falling into his face. The new pomade he bought isn’t worth the money, not if it doesn’t keep his hair nice and done until the workday’s over.</p><p>Steve <em>really </em>wants to draw him.</p><p>“You and Helen get into it, or something? <em>That girl</em>?”</p><p>“Whatever,” Steve says. Because Helen looks at him like he’s on his deathbed when Bucky’s not around and she probably thinks Bucky’s so sweet, caring for some poor sickly little guy until he’s in the ground next to his Ma again. “I just asked you a question, is all.”</p><p>“We should dance.”</p><p>Steve can’t quite suppress the groan that tumbles out of him. It knocks around some phlegm in his chest. “You said we would stay in tonight,” he <em>whines</em>, even though he’ll definitely deny it if Bucky brings it up later, “I’m already set on finishing up this poster for Jennings’ Family Goods while you read <em>The Hobbit</em>.”</p><p>Bucky rolls his eyes, all slow and dramatic, and heads over to the sink. “I meant dancing <em>here</em>,” he says, like it was obvious, ridding his hands of the day’s grime. “I could ask Pauline to borrow her radio. She loves me something fierce, she’ll say yes.”</p><p>Steve’s quiet for a moment.</p><p>Dancing <em>here. Alone</em>.</p><p>No Helen, no Susie, no Jean.</p><p>His stomach twists.</p><p>“The hell d’ya mean?” He asks, voice calm. He’s sure proud of himself for the way his voice comes out normal, no wavering, no cracking.</p><p>Bucky dries his hands on his loose slacks and moves to sit across Steve at the kitchen table, mindful of his art supplies.</p><p>“What’s so confusing about it?”</p><p>“I mean, you’ve <em>seen </em>me dance, Buck.”</p><p>Thoughtful, Bucky clicks his tongue. “Maybe you just need someone to take the lead.”</p><p>“Oh, and what?” Steve asks, voice rising. “I’ll just be your girl?”</p><p>There’s no reason for a fight, Steve knows this. It’s a harmless suggestion, and it would be nice to have an excuse to lean into Bucky and forget about all the deadlines he has, and the whispers about war, and the fact that if it does happen soon, Bucky will go out and serve his country. He’ll go and be a hero, and Steve will have to ask his neighbors for stale pieces of bread and hope to God he doesn’t die before Bucky gets back.</p><p>Or—or <em>worse—</em></p><p>“<em>Hey,</em>” Bucky drawls, all soft. Steve forces himself to look up through bleary eyes and has to take a breath at how open and <em>beautiful </em>he looks. Hair mussed up from work, lips bitten, scruff along his jaw. “Stevie, what is it?”</p><p>“Just thinkin’,” he answers. Doesn’t really know how to calmly say, <em>things are getting worse and I don’t want you to go. </em>“I didn’t mean to—to be a pain in the neck, it’s just,” his voice fizzles out, and Bucky’s eyes soften at him.</p><p>“I know,” he says, voice lower, crackling with the electricity of nerves, and Steve believes him.</p><p>After a while, Steve speaks up again. “So. Dancing.”</p><p>Bucky gets that bright smile on his face. The one that works wonders for him, gets Maria Caffey to give him eyes across the room when they’re out at some rowdy dance hall on a Saturday night.</p><p>“Just you ‘n me,” Bucky says. His expression morphs a few times, and Steve feels his stomach plummet to their creaky floorboards. “Teach you how to dance, no stepping on any feet. You’ll need to know sooner rather than later and I might be out on another continent fairly soon—”</p><p>“<em>Buck</em>,” Steve chokes out.</p><p>They don’t talk about it. They give each other sad, worried looks and get real quiet when someone brings up drafts and recruitment centers. He knows they’ll have to confront it, soon, head on and all that, but Steve would rather get pneumonia again than look into Bucky’s blues while he talks about getting sent to Europe.  </p><p>“Stevie, it’s no good. Ignoring it,” he says, and if Steve was in a better mood, he’d crack a joke about how he’s never heard Bucky’s voice so goddamned quiet before. He came out of the womb screaming, and hasn’t stopped since. “I’ll go talk to Pauline. Be back before you know it.”</p><p>And then he’s getting up off the old, rackety chair they picked up on the side of the road and shutting their door behind him.</p><p>Steve sighs, something big and heavy. He leans forward until his chest is snug with the edge of the kitchen table and takes a few seconds to breathe. In, out, in, out, and he can hear Bucky in the back of his head, too, <em>in, out, that’s good, Steve. </em></p><p>He doesn’t want to imagine life without Bucky. Every day he wakes up and Bucky’s nose is pressing into his neck, and he’ll pretend to sleep a little bit longer, just to relish in the way he feels in Bucky’s warm arms, thermal shirt a miracle in keeping the heat close to them.</p><p>And they’ll make a terrible breakfast, and Bucky will go off to work, and Steve will work on commissions and fill up his sketchbook and wait and wait until the front door opens around five.</p><p>Sometimes, they go to a diner. If Bucky makes enough on a paycheck, he’ll splurge and take them out to get greasy food that never agrees with Steve’s soft stomach, and he’ll ignore the gross feeling that settles in his gut because Bucky always orders a strawberry milkshake with two straws and doesn’t even care that people could see.</p><p>Someone could walk up to the window and stare right at them, watch how Steve’s eyelashes flutter against his strong cheekbones when he leans in to take a sip, heart hammering against his ribcage when Bucky leans in, too.</p><p>Someone could see them at the movies, too, when Bucky sneaks them in and gets them a spot near the back, so he can be as obnoxious as he can in Steve’s good ear. <em>I’m pretty sure your drawing style would be so much better for those parts, </em>he’d say. <em>Your pictures coming to life? Can you imagine that?</em></p><p>And Steve would shush him, like he always does, and then start to think about his sketchbook full of Bucky. The pictures he drew of him that do come to life, whenever he has enough alone time, time to imagine, to <em>long</em>.</p><p>People could see them. And they’d notice, they’d <em>have to</em>. Because Steve’s never been subtle, and he’s seen the way he looks at Bucky, in a photograph taken by their next door neighbor.</p><p>They’d know, right away, and they’d tell Bucky.</p><p>He gets startled to hell whenever Bucky comes back, slamming the door behind him.</p><p>Steve can’t even be mad, because he’s bright with the intensity of his smile and holding up Pauline’s radio like they’ve won the lottery. His heart gives a painful lurch at the sight.</p><p>He’s not gonna know what to do, if Bucky’s not here.</p><p>“Right now?” is what he says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out as a pathetic, wavered little sound. “I have to finish this.”</p><p>“Aw, c’mon, pal,” Bucky inches closer, bumps into the couch because he’s too busy trying to get the radio on the right channel. “I won’t distract you for long. A dance or two, that’s all.”</p><p>“You sure you want to teach me? Or is this part of some master plan to laugh at my two left feet in the comfort of our own home?”</p><p><em>Our home</em>.</p><p> It’s the truth, it is, but it doesn’t stop Steve from flinching a little, like maybe he’s given something away.</p><p>“You know I’d never, Stevie,” Bucky says, and then he lands on some station that fills up the small space with trumpets and crackling words that Steve can barely make out. “<em>Aha</em>. Finally.”</p><p>Steve puts his pencils and colors back in their containers, neat and sharp. He stands up slowly, ignores his knees popping, and goes into their room to place the stack of papers he’s been working on near his finished sketchbooks, thick things that never see the light of day, anymore.</p><p>He stops by the bathroom, washes the ink and lines from his hands, and after drying them on a raggedy towel next to the sink, splashes some cold water on his face.</p><p>It’s just dancing. And it’s just Bucky.</p><p>Somehow, though, those two fleeting thoughts make it worse.</p><p>When he gets into the living area again, Bucky is down to his undershirt and slacks, work boots thumping gently against the floor. He’s swaying all by himself, crooning along to a song Steve’s never heard in his life. His arms have gotten bigger, more toned, ever since he got the gig at the docks. His skin is tanner, too. He’s a marvel to draw.</p><p>Steve doesn’t realize he’s smiling until Bucky looks up and smiles back, and it feels like a mirror.</p><p>“C’mere, then,” Bucky says, wriggling his index finger. “I don’t bite.”</p><p>“Pretty sure Olivia Randall would say otherwise.”</p><p>Bucky pauses, smile still on his face. He clicks his tongue and puts his hand back to his side. “You seem to remember my dates better than I do.”</p><p>Steve feels heat rise to his cheeks and tries his best to think about something else, something sad, anything to stop thinking about the way Bucky’s smiling at him, like he knows, like he’s saying this just to put it out there nonchalantly.</p><p>
  <em>I know you look at me when I kiss a girl on her doorstep. I know you dream about me.</em>
</p><p>“Well, someone has to think of those poor girls,” Steve says, after a beat or two too long. “You sure do get over them real quick.”</p><p>“Will you quit yapping and get over here,” Bucky complains. He makes grabby hands, like a <em>child</em>. Steve doesn’t know what to do with him. “I don’t want to talk about Helen or Olivia or anyone else your sorry ass might bring up. Okay?”</p><p>Steve doesn’t say anything. In fact, his mouth is a little dry and leaves him unable to, because the song ends and turns into something slower and Bucky lights up, reaching out with both arms, now.</p><p>And, God, it’s like heaven. It’s probably half past five, and the light is hitting Bucky just right. The rays of sun are streaming through their secondhand curtains and it makes the ends of Bucky’s hair light up. He wants to say forget this whole thing and go to the bedroom, draw this before he forgets what it looks like. Draw Bucky’s bitten lips and his undershirt sticking to his skin, nipples visible through the thin white cotton.</p><p>He wants to say forget it and draw, but he mostly wants to take the few steps it’ll take to close the gap between them and press up against Bucky. He’s always wanted to know what it felt like, dancing with him. He makes himself green with envy every time they go out, when he has to sit there and watch Bucky spin a girl around and press a sloppy kiss to her cheek when the song’s instruments start to fade out.</p><p>So he walks, and Bucky’s smile grows, like he’s won something, a cool prize from Coney Island, until Steve has to take a pause. He’s danced a few times, all of them less than five minutes, and it’s been a while, so he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.</p><p>It’s been a while is all, he’s not <em>nervous</em>.</p><p>“Okay,” Bucky says, then straightens out his back. “We join hands like this.”</p><p>Steve’s breath leaves him in a dreamy sigh. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, thank God, so he just focuses on the way their hands look together.</p><p>“I put my other one here,” Bucky says, soft, slow, and then splays his right hand across Steve’s waist.</p><p>It’s so quiet that Steve thinks if he focused, <em>really </em>focused, he could hear his own heartbeat.</p><p>A breath passes and Steve reaches up with his free hand, settling on Bucky’s shoulder.</p><p>“Hey, you didn’t need me ‘t tell you what to do,” Bucky jokes, but he’s tense, Steve can feel it beneath his left hand.</p><p>He wonders if Bucky regrets asking him to dance. He’s not a pretty girl, he doesn’t wear red lipstick that can stain Bucky’s skin, his neck. They’re not at some fancy hall with music blaring so loudly it makes Steve’s heartbeat stutter. No, they’re at home because Steve doesn’t wanna do anything but draw and his chest is starting to act up. Bucky deserves someone better, someone who can keep up with him.</p><p>“What’s that face for?”</p><p>Steve sighs. He doesn’t want to ruin this. Bucky promised a dance or two and they’ve barely joined together.</p><p>“Nothin’, Buck.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s horse shit,” Bucky curses, and then they start moving, slowly. They take small steps, careful not to knock into the small coffee table they knicked from a curb. Steve has to put all of his focus on the pattern they’re moving in, and it’s so hard, because Bucky’s warm and squeezing his hand every few seconds, like he’s checking if Steve’s okay. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>“You could go out tonight,” Steve says. He looks up into Bucky’s eyes for a split second before returning his gaze to their hands. “You like goin’ out after a long week.”</p><p>“Okay?”</p><p>“You don’t <em>have to</em>—Buck, you said it yourself. You might be gone soon, and you’ll have wasted your last free weekends dancing with <em>me</em>.”</p><p>Bucky sucks in a breath and steps closer. Steve didn’t even think it was possible, to get closer, but he does, and he smells the faint smoke stuck to his undershirt and something else he can’t quite put his finger on.</p><p>“You drive me crazy,” Bucky drawls, and then pulls Steve forward by the waist until they’re flush together. Steve inhales, sharp, and coughs to cover up his surprise. “You of all people know that when I do something, it’s because I <em>want to</em>.”</p><p>“You expect me to believe that you’d rather be at home on a Friday night? Dancin’ with <em>little ol’ </em>Stevie Rogers who can’t move worth ‘a shit and might have to pull out an inhaler when I do?”</p><p>“Stop talking about yourself like that,” Bucky says, voice growing harder around the edges. Steve wants to push him away, but he also wants to get <em>closer</em>. “You know how much I hate it.”</p><p>“I just can’t imagine you enjoying spending your last days like this.”</p><p>“You talk about me like I’m dyin’, Stevie.”</p><p>The joke falls flat.</p><p>They keep moving though, in circles, in diagonal lines. The song changes.</p><p>Bucky starts humming along when the woman starts to sing, and Steve can’t help but smile and shake his head.</p><p>“Somewhere in heaven you were fashioned for me,” he says, not quite singing.</p><p>Steve feels like maybe he’s going to do something stupid. It’s what he’s known for, after all.</p><p>It’s just—Bucky could be shipping out soon. And Steve wouldn’t be able to follow.</p><p>“Fate gave me a sign,” Bucky sings now, voice quiet and raspy. “I know that I’ll be yours come shower or shine.”</p><p>Steve <em>aches</em>. He fucking aches, has ached for as long as he could remember. Not because of tender joints or a rattling chest or his asthma episodes, not at all. He aches for Bucky, he aches for <em>more</em>.</p><p>More, more, more.</p><p>He feels so ashamed, thinking all of this. Bucky’s <em>right there</em>.</p><p>“Gonna give me an earache with your singing voice,” Steve tries to joke, but his mouth is dry and he mumbles his words out in a quick little tumble.</p><p>“Really? ‘Cause I’m close enough to see the tips of your ears goin’ red.”</p><p>Steve pushes at Bucky’s chest with an embarrassed little laugh and rolls his eyes when Bucky pulls him in tighter. He can’t get away, but he doesn’t really want to.</p><p>“Maybe you’re just seeing things.”</p><p>“Hm,” Bucky hums, thoughtfully. “Maybe. I don’t think I am, though.”</p><p>Steve really wants to lace their fingers together, like some sort of romance movie. Like Bucky does with his dates. They should’ve done this when it got darker, so Steve could have a little bit of courage thrumming through his veins. This silly little thought that, he could get away with anything when it’s dark outside.</p><p>But it’s bright. And the sun’s still making Bucky’s hair turn colors, and Steve’s courage meter is down way low, to the zero mark.</p><p>The song changes again. Bucky said a dance or two, and Steve’s not ready for it to be over.</p><p>So, he starts talking. Just to distract.</p><p>“You never told me about your day.”</p><p>Bucky hums and finally, Steve feels his shoulder relax beneath his palm. “’S okay. Johnny told me all about his new sweetheart. He’s a goddamned hopeless romantic. Boss saw me workin’ hard, so hopefully he adds a little somethin’ to the paycheck next week. I saw these paints in a shop window, Stevie, I think you could make something beautiful with ‘em, for another shop that <em>pays you better</em>—”</p><p>“Why do you do that?”</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Waste your hard-earned paycheck on me.”</p><p>Bucky’s eyebrows pull together. “Because I want to?”</p><p>“You could get yourself some nice clothes, or buy one of your sisters something neat. Winnifred wouldn’t complain if you showed up with a bunch of flowers.”</p><p>“I don’t want new clothes and my sisters are spoiled rotten as it is. Ma knows we don’t have enough money for kind gestures.”</p><p>“That doesn’t explain why you buy <em>me </em>things.”</p><p>Bucky breathes out through his nose and leans further into Steve’s space. “I like doing it. That what you wanna hear?”</p><p>Steve pulls back. “Why?”</p><p>“Jesus,” Bucky sighs. He keeps on leading them, though, dancing around the living space to another song Steve’s never heard. It feels like a dream. “Don’t do that. It’s not ‘cause I feel bad, or whatever else you were thinking.”</p><p>Steve smiles, just because Bucky knows him so well.</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>After a few beats of silence, Bucky sighs, a defeated little noise right at the shell of Steve’s ear. “I like seein’ you happy, Stevie. That’s all. Nothin’ bad behind it. I bust my ass at the docks and do odd jobs but it’s real nice, getting to see you smile over new colors or charcoal pencils.”</p><p>And, well. Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. His heart beats erratically in his chest and he hopes to God above that Bucky can’t feel it.</p><p><em>Starry-eyed</em>, he makes out on the radio. Bucky spins them around so that Steve’s good ear is facing the blaring speaker. He misses the next few lines, but. <em>Things are mending now, I see a rainbow blending now. We’ll have a happy ending, now, takin’ a chance on love.</em></p><p>The air feels different. It should, Steve thinks, since Bucky just said he likes to see him happy. They’re sweet to each other, but nothing is ever said aloud. Bucky makes breakfast and Steve just smiles. Steve massages Bucky’s shoulders after his overtime shift and he smiles his thanks.</p><p>Nothing like this.</p><p>“Can’t believe I finally shut you up,” Bucky says, long enough later that another song is starting to swell. “Should’ve said that a long time ago. Would’ve saved you from getting your ass handed to you every other day in some beat up, smelly old alley.”</p><p>Steve breathes out a quiet laugh.</p><p>“Stevie, say somethin’, okay? Not used to this…<em>quiet</em>.”</p><p>The courage meter suddenly ticks to the middle, and Steve readjusts their joined hands until their fingers are interlocked. A warm feeling spreads from the top of his head to his toes, tingling and <em>screaming </em>at him: Bucky, Bucky, Bucky.</p><p>They’re holding hands, properly. They’re <em>dancing</em>. Steve feels like he’s going to shoot up in bed any second, palms sweaty and mouth dry from too good of a dream.</p><p>“Why’d you do that?”</p><p>“Do what?” Steve answers, way too quickly.</p><p>Bucky steps away from Steve’s body, taking most of his warmth with him. They’re far enough apart that Steve has to look up at Bucky, no matter how much he wants to train his eyes to the floor. He can’t look too nervous. Can’t give anything away.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Bucky says, voice smooth, and raises their hands so they’re right in Steve’s face.</p><p>“Because I wanted to,” Steve blurts out. His heart’s going so hard in his chest that it makes him feel a little dizzy, and Bucky must realize, because his face changes from amused to concerned.</p><p>“Hey. <em>Hey</em>. What are you so worked up for? It’s just you and me. What is it?”</p><p>Steve feels warm tears prick at his eyes. Great. He’s going to cry after holding Bucky’s hand and be humiliated for the rest of his miserable life. Bucky’s gonna go away and Steve’s gonna have to think about this stupid moment, where he was too much of a chicken shit to do anything.</p><p>Bucky always calls him brave, always has, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s wrong.</p><p>“Stevie?”</p><p>“Because I want to,” he says, through heavy breaths. “I know you don’t—I know you’re not like—I just wanted to know what it was like,” he settles on, and it’s so much, way too much of the truth, that Steve can’t bear to see Bucky when he realizes the weight of the words. With the bitter taste of courage on his tongue, he falls forward until his face is buried deep in the soft cotton of Bucky’s undershirt and just breathes, slowly.</p><p>It’s quiet.</p><p>He doesn’t regret saying it. Things are changing and they’re scary, and Steve’s never backed down from anything.</p><p>But Bucky doesn’t push him away. He doesn’t make a mean noise of disgust and shove him to the floor. No, he holds Steve tighter, trails his hand from Steve’s waist to rest on the back of his head, fingers curling through the short crop near the nape of his neck.</p><p>“Christ, Stevie,” he says. The vibration of his voice feels so good from where Steve is resting. “Always so goddamned dramatic. I always tell Johnny you could be a movie star, with your attitude and your pretty eyes.”</p><p>“Please don’t be funny about this, Buck,” Steve’s voice comes out quiet, like it could shatter. He moves to pull away, but Bucky’s still holding him tight. “I wouldn’ta said anything if I knew you’d joke about it.”</p><p>“I’m not jokin’,” Bucky says, voice hard. It’s somehow easier to have this conversation when he’s pressed against Bucky’s chest. He doesn’t know what he’d do, if he had to look in his eyes while being let down easy. “I’m <em>not</em>. Johnny—his new sweetheart, it’s a fella named David. He’s someone I can,” he blows out a breath, making Steve’s hair blow around like they’re in a windstorm. “Talk to.”</p><p>Steve takes a step back, out of Bucky’s arms, away from his body, to see if Bucky’s joking. And he’s—just staring right back, eyes clear, mouth pulled into a line, like he does when he’s nervous.</p><p>And Steve never thought about this possibility. It hurt too much, thinking about what he couldn’t have. So he’s not prepared, not really, for Bucky to give him one of those skirt dropping smiles.</p><p>“Jesus,” Steve whispers, a rush of air. He has to put an arm out to balance himself. “Why didn’t you say anything?”</p><p>“Why didn’t <em>you</em>?”</p><p>“<em>Me</em>? Bucky, you and—all the girls?”</p><p>“So what?”</p><p>Steve sighs. Bites at his bottom lip just for a second, just to think. “You’re such a damn idiot.”</p><p>And then Steve’s leaning in, and he hasn’t kissed anyone in a long while, never mind properly, but none of that matters. Not when Bucky’s reaching forward to gather him back up in his arms, not when Bucky’s making this soft noise in the back of his throat that Steve feels in his <em>heart</em>, not when their lips press together, something dry and innocent and everything he’s wanted since he scraped his knees at the school playground and Bucky had gone up to him, all nice and sweet, front teeth missing, and asked if he needed any help.</p><p>It doesn’t stay that way. Bucky tilts his head and does something with his tongue that has Steve holding onto him for dear life, breathing harshly through his nose to keep up.</p><p>Bucky pulls away, just a little, to put their foreheads together. “It’s okay. Don’t get too worked up. Your coughing was something else this morning, I don’t want you to—”</p><p>“Bucky, stop, please, kiss me,” he whines, babbles, and that must get Bucky to stop worrying, must make him realize that Steve’s still okay and in his right mind, because Steve’s getting kissed again, hard and wet and warm.</p><p>He tries to kiss back as good as he can, but he’s so overwhelmed and his mind is going a mile a minute, and some girl giving him a pity kiss in junior high wasn’t exactly good practice.</p><p>It takes everything in him to focus, to feel the slide of their lips, to open his mouth when Bucky’s tongue gives him a hint.</p><p>“Stevie,” Bucky says, sounding absolutely ruined, “You don’t have any <em>idea</em>, sweetheart. Not a goddamn clue.”</p><p>“Tell me.”</p><p>“Your mouth is even better than I imagined,” Bucky says, and Steve <em>recognizes </em>his tone of voice. Dropping off girls at their doorstep, getting a kiss in the darkness of the street. Sweet like honey, warm, so fucking <em>devastating</em>. And now it’s being directed towards <em>him. </em>He could die of an asthma attack tomorrow and feel perfectly content. “Seriously, Stevie, you’ve the mouth of an angel.”</p><p>“Shut it.”</p><p>“I mean it,” Bucky says, then moves to press another kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. “Wouldn’t tell you a lie. Ever. Got me wrapped around your finger.”</p><p>“You’re way too much,” Steve complains, twisting his fingers in the clump of Bucky’s shirt he’s bunched up. “Now I know why Helen puts up with your bullshit. Why all of ‘em do.”</p><p>“You’re talking about <em>Helen</em>, right now?”</p><p>And, okay. Yeah. He shouldn’t be thinking about Helen. Not when Bucky’s looking at him like that.</p><p>He forgets about her. Forgets about the rumors of war. Forgets about everything except for Bucky.</p><p>But later that night, when they’re worn out and sticky and sweaty, warm in each other’s arms, Steve can’t help it.</p><p>“Helen sure had stars in her eyes for good reason.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/markofalover">twitter</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>